


Black hole

by Gandalfgirl579, Slipperyl3oy (Gandalfgirl579)



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Ballet, College, Dark Academia, Drinking, F/F, Fluff and Angst, It's A Dark One, Modern Era, Past griddlehark, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Unrequited Love, harryanthe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29364165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gandalfgirl579/pseuds/Gandalfgirl579, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gandalfgirl579/pseuds/Slipperyl3oy
Summary: As she removed her earrings, Ianthe joined Harrow on the couch, asking, "What're you reading?" When Harrow turned the cover toward her, she wrinkled her nose. "The Bell Jar?" She sneered. "No wonder you're depressed.""I'm not depressed," Harrow said, and was instantly aware of the fact that it was utter bullshit. Her parents were dead, Gideon had dumped her, and Ianthe was the only one who seemed to care that she was here.Depressedwasn't a strong enough word.Consider this a modern dark academia ballet AU. Very The Secret History meets Tiny Pretty Things or Flesh and Bone. It's dark, but not as dark as it seems.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Coronabeth Tridentarius, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 60
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

Harrow wanted to die.

Not permanently, not _for always and eternity_ , but for a few months. Just until all the whispers and the empty words of comfort and the pitying looks stopped. She had hoped that no one here had heard yet, that she could slip in without the little black cloud of death following her in, but word traveled fast. Her parents were dead, and the entire world knew about it. 

Today's pitying look came from John Gaius, the Headmaster of the Mithraeum Academy of Dance. Of course he knew. Her parents had donated vast amounts of money over the years to keep this place open. Gaius sat behind a dark, elegant desk in his office, his elbows on its edge, his eyes on her. They were warm, dark eyes, set over a tense mouth and below furrowed brows. 

Harrow sat in a handsome chair opposite him, her hands folded primly in her lap. She was dressed from head to toe in black: Black jeans, black turtleneck, black gloves, black boots. She wore a black leotard beneath, just in case. It wasn't a sign of mourning, of course: She only ever wore black. Even her pointe shoes were black, which may have been a little extra, but she liked them. Pink didn't suit her. 

Gaius seemed unsure of what to say, and so Harrow did the speaking: "If you could just give me a schedule and a key to my dormitory room, I can get out of your hair." 

He said, " _Harrowhark_." 

She had attended the Academy every summer for years, and she could easily tell when he was about to launch into one of his infamous speeches. Harrow stood, picking up her duffel bag and hoisting it over her shoulder. 

He asked, "You're sure you want to do this?" Even as he spoke, he slid a copy of the dance and health and ballet history classes she would be taking over the desk. 

"I need a distraction," Harrow said, taking the paper and sticking it into one of the pockets of her bag. It was the most honest thing she had said since her parents had died three-- Four? Five? How long had it been? She had lost track. "I've been meaning to enroll anyway." 

"Well," Gauis said, sounding more like a father than her father ever had, "if it's a distraction you want, our new production will start casting in a few weeks." 

"I'll be auditioning, then," Harrow said, and stayed silent until Gaius handed her a key. 

"You're in room 16," he told her, holding her eyes with his, "on the second floor." 

"Thank you, sir," Harrow said, and left before he could say anything else. 

The looks didn't stop as she made her way down the hall of the administrative building. Aiglamene, one of the instructors, gave her shoulder a squeeze as they passed each other in the corridor that held the offices of the lesser staff. In the foyer, Augustine gave her a somber little nod. On the stone steps outside, Mercymorn ignored her completely. At least that was normal. 

The looks didn't stop as she crossed the spring-green grass of the courtyard, the dancers and stagehands and costumers who knew her whispering behind their hands while the ones who didn't know her didn't even bother to hide their gossiping mouths. Was it their disrespect or just the unwelcome sunshine pouring down on her making her ears hot? 

The looks did not even stop when she entered the dormitory where the students slept. The lobby was abuzz with activity, many sets of eyes finding her and following her as she stalked to the stairs set against the wall. Up the steps, towards the back of the hall, was room 16, where she would be kept. It wasn't home, and for that, Harrow was grateful. She knocked before she entered. 

"Enter," crooned her roommate. 

Harrow stepped in, setting her bag in the little walkway, finding her new roommate stretched out on her back the floor, paddling her legs in the air as if she were on a bicycle. The cigarette in her mouth slipped, and looking at Harrow with her ridiculous violet eyes, Ianthe Tridentarius said, "My God. You look like someone's just died."


	2. Chapter 2

Harrow lay facedown on the floor of her and Ianthe's living room, making herself as much of an inconvenience as possible. 

Ianthe had stepped over her half a dozen times, but the seventh time, she gave Harrow a little jab in the ribs with the toe box of her pointe shoe. She had been breaking in a new pair, wearing them to pace the room, even to wash the dishes, though it caused her to bend farther than usual to reach the sink. "Harry," Ianthe said, pushing at Harrow's side enough that she slid an inch across the wood of the floor. "You're in my way." 

Harrow paid her no mind.

"You haven't said a single word since you got here," Ianthe said. She knelt on her toes, wrapping both her flesh arm and the prosthetic one around herself for balance, her head resting on her knees. "I'm beginning to think I'm being haunted."

Turning her head, Harrow glared at her.

"See? That!" Ianthe rose in one smooth, graceful movement. "A look like that makes me feel like things are going to start flying around any minute!"

Rolling her eyes, Harrow turned her nose back to the floor. It smelled like wood polish and Ianthe's perfume. 

Ianthe took a seat on the sofa, bending to untie the ribbon at her ankle. As it always did, her prosthetic arm gave her a little trouble, but she pushed through, stubborn. It was admirable, Harrow had always thought. "I want you to go out today," she said. Her eyes were on Harrow, though Harrow couldn't see it, what with her face being pressed to the floor. She probably had red marks on her forehead by now. "I don't want people thinking I have you chained up in the basement or anything." 

To the floor, Harrow said, "We don't have a basement." 

"Just the same," Ianthe said, folding her ribbons and working to remove the other shoe. She wore a baggy white peasant shirt, which was open all the way to her navel and was tucked into a pair of tight black slacks. She looked resplendent. Harrow hated her, or so she liked to tell herself. She had never been able to bring herself to hate Ianthe. "Go out," she was saying. "Go get coffee." She gave Harrow a snotty little grin. "Go buy me some candy. Anything is better than you loafing around here all day." 

"That's not for you to decide," Harrow said flatly.

Ianthe, with a roll of her eyes, stood again, crossed the room, then sat, straddling Harrow's lower back. Her hands flat on the floor, she bent close to the floor to catch Harrow's eyes. "You can't just wallow forever," she said, and there was something uncharacteristically soft in her voice. "You have to start attending classes or you'll get kicked out." When Harrow didn't move, Ianthe did, pressing her ear to Harrow's back as if to listen to her heartbeat. "Fine," she said, petulant again, "then I'll use you as a chair."

Harrow didn't mind being used as a chair. Ianthe's weight was a heavy, comforting warmth, and it had been so long since anyone had touched her. It was nice. She was content, in that moment, to stay a chair forever. No dancing, no classes, no obligations. This was nice.

"Harry?" Ianthe lifted her head from Harrow's trembling back. "Oh, baby." She sounded like she was addressing an actual baby, her tone crooning and soft. "Are you crying?" 

She was. 

Without another word, Ianthe pressed closer again, her hair pooling along Harrow's back, her chilly hands around Harrow's upper arms, grounding her there so she wouldn't float off into space.

For that, Harrow was incredibly grateful.


	3. Chapter 3

It took an hour after Ianthe had left for Harrow to pick herself up off the floor. 

It was still early, she realized when she grabbed her phone from where it sat under the edge of the sofa. It wasn't even ten a.m. She had a text waiting from her cousin, Ortus, but she dismissed it. She doubted it was important. Ortus wasn't capable of _important_ , only of the imitation of important. 

Harrow stood, stalking into the shower and stripping down. She was too thin now. She hadn't danced since her parents had died, and she hadn't eaten much, either. She needed to work on that. With the water as hot as she could get it, she scrubbed at her hair, scouring her skin until it was red and smelling of Ianthe's vetiver body wash. The smell was more masculine than she usually wore, but it was familiar, and she found she didn't mind it at all. 

Wrapping up in a towel, Harrow stepped into the living room, grabbing her duffel bag from where it still sat in the walkway. She pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a little black camisole and stepped into her ballet flats, tossing the towel aside. She would normally have put in her earrings and stacked bracelets and put on her favorite choker, but she simply didn't have the energy for it at present. She hadn't in ages. She wasn't even sure they had been packed. Maybe that had been what Ortus wanted. 

Grabbing her wallet and stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans, Harrow set out into the hall, then down the stairs and through the lobby of the building. She walked along the concrete path past the administration building and to the little shopping area the was built at the edge of the campus. 

There were costume shops here, and shoe shops, and far too many cafés to count. 

Harrow chose the closest one, stepped inside, and got in line.

She had only been standing there for a moment when a pair came in and stood in line behind her, the bell above the door jingling merrily. 

Harrow's shoulders lifted to her ears, her neck warming when Gideon Nav's voice asked, "Harrow?"

She said, very softly, her chest suddenly tight, not even looking back, "Griddle." 

Gideon's hand, big and calloused and warm, rested on Harrow's shoulder, spinning her around and pulling her into a tight embrace. It took everything Harrow had not to melt into it. Gideon wasn't hers anymore; She didn't deserve to see her with her guard down. Above her, Gideon was saying, "I'm so bloody sorry, Harrow." 

Harrow, for her part, couldn't speak, and so she buried her face in Gideon's chest, silent. She didn't cry, didn't knot her hands in Gideon's shirt, didn't let the familiar smell of her drift her away. She wanted to, though, more than anything. 

Gideon wasn't alone, and she said to the girl she had come in with, a pretty blonde Harrow was certain she recognized, "Get the biggest coffee you can get for her, yeah? She takes it black."

"Go sit with her outside," the blonde said, her tone gentle and sympathetic. "I'll find you."

Nodding, Gideon maneuvered Harrow so she was held against her side, and they stepped outside again, into the sunshine. It really was a beautiful day. Harrow let Gideon sit her down at one of the metal tables, holding her hand across the top. Harrow had missed the feeling more than she could possibly say. 

"What even happened?" Gideon asked, blunt as ever. 

It was better than the constant tiptoeing most everyone else was doing around. Still, Harrow said, "I don't want to talk about it."

Gideon's lips pressed together, a furrow forming between her ginger brows. "Never known you to avoid a subject," she said. 

Harrow ignored her, flipping their joined hands over so she could thread their fingers together. 

Gideon's hands were the same as they had always been: Large and strong and calloused and so, so familiar. Harrow's chest ached. She pulled away, though, when the blonde girl came out with a little foam tray carrying their drinks. 

She placed an extra-large black coffee before Harrow, then added a little styrofoam bowl of soup and a wrapped plastic spoon. "You look like you could use a hot meal," she said, not unkindly.

Harrow didn't say anything to her, merely staring up into her eyes for a long moment. They were violet, the same ludicrous color as Ianthe's. Corona, Harrow realized. This was Coronabeth Tridentarius. It had been years. Corona had always been more advanced than Harrow or even Ianthe. She was too perfect, and Harrow had never liked her, and she surely wasn't about to start now.

"You remember Harrow?" Gideon asked.

"Little Harrowhark," Corona said, in the tone one would address an especially cute dog, "of course!" 

"And Harrow," Gideon said next, fighting a smile, "you remember Corona?"

_Unfortunately_ , Harrow didn't say, doing her best not to let her jealousy become obvious. She did say, "Ianthe's sister."

"And you're Ianthe's roommate now," Corona said, taking a seat and sipping at her own coffee, some pale, frothy thing that probably was barely coffee at all. "She told me what happened. I'm so sorry, Harrow."

Harrow almost believed her. She took a sip of her coffee, her other hand folded primly in her lap, keenly aware of Gideon's gorgeous golden eyes on her. "It's fine," she said, and even she knew how false it sounded. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, no, I doubt that," Gideon said. She glanced at Corona, taking her hand for a moment. "Go on to class," she said. "I'm gonna keep Harrow company." 

Corona shot a look at Harrow, too, sympathetic as anything, then kissed Gideon's temple. "I'll see you tonight," she said. "Text me, yes?"

"Will do." She smiled to herself, watching as Corona slipped off into the crowd, before she looked to Harrow again. She said, as gently as Harrow had ever heard, "I'm sorry." 

"Don't," Harrow said. Her tone was sharper than she had intended, but Gideon smiled just the same. "I've heard enough _I'm sorries_ to last me a lifetime. I don't want to hear any more apologies."

Gideon said, looking proud, "That's my girl."

That hurt worse than her parent's deaths had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no Ianthe in this chapter, which makes me profoundly sad, but there's Gideon, so that's good! But also Corona.


	4. Chapter 4

Ianthe didn't come home until it had gotten quite late, and Harrow was half asleep on the sofa when the door opened, the book she had been reading sitting forgotten in her lap. She hadn't even marked her page. Damn. Had something important been happening on-page? She couldn't remember. _Damn._

In the doorway, Ianthe slipped off her shoes and dropped her bag, then pulled off her shirt, too, leaving her in just a lacy bralette that was nearly the same pale cream color as her skin. As she removed her earrings, she joined Harrow on the couch, asking, "What're you reading?" When Harrow turned the cover toward her, she wrinkled her nose. " _The Bell Jar_?" She sneered, stretching over Harrow's lap and leaving her earrings on the end table. "No wonder you're depressed."

"I'm not depressed," Harrow said, and was instantly aware of the fact that it was utter bullshit. 

Ianthe gave her a sour look for that, then asked, "Did you use my body wash, Harry?"

Rather than answer outright, Harrow said, "I'll have my own things soon."

"I didn't say I minded." Ianthe leaned in then, and Harrow shuddered hard when the very tip of Ianthe's nose brushed her neck. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation, and though her hands tightened around her book, she didn't pull away. It had been too long and it felt too good for her to pull away. Harrow hadn't realized how desperate for contact she had become, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. "Smells nice on you, actually." 

Turning away, Harrow set her book on the end table, keenly aware of Ianthe's eyes on her as she did, willing her face to cool. It didn't feel like it was working.

"I hear you managed to leave this morning," Ianthe said, relaxing back into the sofa, her legs crossed at the knee, her arms stretched over the back.

Harrow asked, turning towards her again, "Who told you that?"

"Corona, of course." Ianthe stood again, padding on her bare feet to the connected kitchenette, grabbing a bottle of white wine from the fridge. It was already half gone, but she didn't seem bothered by that. "She said you and her giant puppy of a girlfriend had brunch."

"Not exactly brunch," Harrow said, watching as Ianthe came back and sat beside her and took a long swig from the bottle. When it was offered, she took it and drank a bit herself. It tasted cheap, but she found she didn't care. "I bumped into them at one of the coffee shops, and after Corona went to class, Gideon stayed with me."

Accepting the bottle back, Ianthe asked, "Weren't you and her an item at one point?"

"At one point," Harrow agreed bitterly and regretted passing the bottle back so soon. 

Ianthe seemed to pick up on her tone, raising a pale brow and asking, "Bad breakup?"

"No," Harrow said, and it was mostly true. It had hurt more than anything ever had but there had never been an official breakup. It had just ended. It had been almost a year now, and it still hurt. Harrow had loved Gideon since they were children, since her mother had decided that paying for the education of an orphan would be a good bit of charity work. Harrow had fallen for Gideon before she even knew what she felt. Gideon, it seemed, no longer felt the same. "We drifted apart."

With the tone of someone who knew from experience, Ianthe murmured, "That always hurts worse." She offered Harrow the bottle again, and Harrow gratefully accepted it. Ianthe watched her drink, eyes on her throat, strangely dark. "You're coming to class with me tomorrow," Ianthe said as the bottle was passed back. "If you can get coffee, you can dance."

"I don't know if I still can," Harrow admitted. It was ridiculous, she knew. Of course she could still dance. Did she have the energy for it, though? It had taken all she had had to make it to the coffee shop, and seeing Gideon had drained her energy for the rest of the day. "It's been a while."

Rolling her ludicrous violet eyes, Ianthe set the bottle on the floor and stood. She thumbed through her phone for a moment before a slow, smooth song came on. She set it on the arm of the couch. "It's just like riding a bike," she said, and took hold of Harrow's wrist, pulling her up and pulling her close. 

Harrow went stiff for a long moment, saying, "I doubt that." Soon, though, she melted into the warmth of having someone so close, swaying in time with the music. "This isn't exactly ballet," she muttered, doing her best to resist the urge to rest her head against Ianthe's chest. Even she had some pride. "This is a bit easier."

"Think of it as easing back in," Ianthe crooned, and pulled her even closer. 

Harrow could smell the alcohol on her breath, and could feel it pulsing through her own veins, too. Her so-called pride could go to Hell. She pressed closer. "I suppose it's better than nothing," she agreed.

"And you get to dance with me," Ianthe crooned. "You know how picky I am about dance partners."

She was notoriously picky. As far as Harrow knew, she was only the fourth: Coronabeth, Naberius, and Augustine. There were rumors that she and Augustine did more than just dance together, but Harrow didn't want Ianthe to bite her head off, so she didn't mention them. 

"So why me?" Harrow asked, mirroring Ianthe when she did a little shimmy with her hips. It felt ridiculous, but she put that aside in favor of the integrity of the dance. Ianthe had definitely done this before. "Just because I'm here?"

With a wicked little smile, Ianthe admitted, "More or less." The music swelled, and Ianthe pushed Harrow out, lifting her prosthetic arm to twirl her around, then dropping her into a dip that nearly had her on the floor, still held close. "And also, it's nice to dance the man's part from time to time."

For the first time in memory, dipped low and hanging half upside-down, Harrow laughed.


	5. Chapter 5

"Get dressed."

It was half a command, and curled up beneath a pile of her own clothes, Harrow said, "This early?" She was exhausted. She hadn't slept well; She never did anymore. She dreamed of her parent's bodies, she dreamed of Gideon, she dreamed of being alone. What was she now, but alone? She was living in a nightmare. It was better than dreaming, she supposed. At least she had some control over the waking nightmare. 

Already moving around the room, Ianthe said, "If you had actual blankets, you'd probably sleep better." She wasn't wrong. 

"My cousin is bringing my things sometime soon," Harrow said, squinting when Ianthe opened the blinds over the window on the far wall. It was a lovely day outside, and Harrow wanted nothing more than to cocoon herself in fabric and sleep it away. "I can't believe you don't have extra blankets."

"Corona has all the extras," Ianthe said, "for when Gideon stays over." 

Harrow did her best not to cringe.

Paying her no mind, Ianthe pulled her nightshirt over her head, her prosthetic arm already in place. She had her long, pallid hair pulled up into a loose bun, and she was rifling through her dresser, which sat not far from the foot of her bed. She turned toward Harrow, bare-chested, and said, "You'd be better off just sleeping in my bed." 

Harrow looked away, kept silent, and rooted through her pile of clothes for a leotard and jeans and a shirt to pull over it. Doing her best not to look at Ianthe, who had now stripped completely, she darted into the bathroom to change. 

From the bedroom, Ianthe laughed, "Can't believe you're still so shy!" 

As she stepped back out, fully dressed, Harrow said, "I'm not shy."

Ianthe's pretty eyes rolled, and she grabbed her duffle bag off the top of her dresser. 

Harrow did the same, and they went into the living room together, both kneeling in the entryway to pull on their shoes.

"It's Wednesday," Ianthe was saying, as if Harrow didn't know. She didn't, though she wouldn't admit it. "It's the easiest day of the week, practice-wise." Ianthe stood, grasping the strap of her duffel bag with her flesh hand and offering her prosthetic hand to Harrow, who easily accepted it. "I had Augustine talk to Gaius on your behalf." Augustine again. Harrow made a mental note to ask about Ianthe's relationship with him. "He's willing to let you get away with missing so many classes, so long as you start coming with me at least three days a week."

Harrow had a hard time letting go of Ianthe's hand, so she didn't. "Only three days a week?" she asked.

"The majority of the week," Ianthe said, eyeing their joined hands, though she made no move to pull away, either. Her thumb stroked idly over Harrow's protruding knuckles, and Harrow shivered at the casual intimacy of it. "For the first month, then you'll need to attend regularly."

"Fair enough," Harrow said, and finally managed to pull away. 

Ianthe looked at her for a long moment, her pale brows drawn together. Then she said, "Shall we?"

And out the door they went.


	6. Chapter 6

"I didn't think one practice would kill you," Ianthe said pleasantly. She sat at one of the many tables that dotted the floor of the plot department building, her false arm stretched over the tabletop, her flesh arm bent at the elbow. She had her chin resting in her hand, her ludicrous eyes cast down at Harrow, watching her the way a cat watched an especially pretty ball of string.

Harrow, for her part, sat on the floor with her back pressed to the back of the chair where Ianthe sat. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped back, her body aching, but she managed to grit out, "I'm not dead." 

"You're looking awfully pale, though." The hand that wasn't stretched across the table reached back, touching the cool bottom of a water bottle to Harrow's shoulder. "Drink," said Ianthe.

Harrow took it, resentfully, and did as she was told.

Above her, Ianthe had her prosthetic arm extended, and across the table sat Palamedes Sextus, hunched over to study her false phalanges. It was a check-up, Ianthe had told Harrow while they had walked over from the academic building. Palamedes had been here, working in the prop department, for as long as Harrow had remembered. Maybe he had even been here before her. He couldn't dance, it was true, but he was a remarkably talented prop maker. 

At his side sat Camilla Hect, and she watched intently as he worked. 

"You remember Harrowhark, don't you?" Ianthe asked.

"Of course we do." Palamedes didn't look up as he worked, but he said, very gently, "We're so sorry for your loss."

Harrow almost believed him, but it was only when Ianthe reached back to bat at her shoulder like an irritable cat that she said, "Thank you." 

"I'm a little surprised you came back so soon," Camilla said, her eyes shifting from Palamedes's hands to Harrow's shoulder. "But it's good to see you." 

Harrow had always liked Camilla, and she said, "You, too."

"She's still a little mopey." Ianthe sounded almost affectionate, and she twisted herself in her chair so she could pat Harrow's hair. Harrow didn't have it in her to pull away. She blamed it on her exhaustion, but she didn't fully believe it. "But at least she's out today."

"Better than nothing," Palamedes agreed, then pulled back and adjusted his glasses. "Is the arm giving you trouble?"

"No." Ianthe shrugged. "I just didn't have any plans for the afternoon," she said, and he gave her a pinched, irritated look. She ignored it, but gave a dirty look of her own when the door at the front of the room swung open and Naberius Tern strode in. 

Harrow found herself mirroring Ianthe's expression. She had never cared for Naberius. He was a fantastic dancer, but he had a habit of forcing that down everyone's throats. He gagged her, both literally and figuratively. 

"Ianthe," Nabrius said, eyeing Harrow for a moment after, "Corona's looking for you."

With a lazy wave of her prosthetic hand, Ianthe groaned, "Isn't she always?" 

He ignored that to ask, "Who's your friend? She looks familiar." 

"My name is Harrow," Harrow said, and did her best not to blush when Ianthe gave her a look of pride, like a teacher would give an especially talented student. "We've known each other since we were children."

"Douche canoe," Ianthe added with a pretty smile.

"Oh." Ignoring Ianthe, Naberius asked, "Are you Gideon's Harrow, then?"

The look Ianthe gave him could cut glass, but Harrow only said, "I was."


	7. Chapter 7

Harrow was still sore when Ortus arrived at the academy the next day. 

It was Ianthe who had answered the door, looking down her nose at him, and he cleared his throat uneasily. "And who would you be?" Ianthe asked.

"Ortus Nigenad," he said, his dark eyes on hers despite his embarrassed expression. He had always been an odd mix of soft and strong, his big hands trembling though he stood tall and solid. He looked past Ianthe, adding, "Harrowhark."

Harrow rose from the sofa, shouldering past Ianthe to accept the first of the number of suitcases Ortus had brought with him. "Ortus," she said. 

Though Ianthe raised a brow, she stood aside, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall beside the doorway. 

Ortus gave her a weary look and stepped in after Harrow, hefting up the four other suitcases he had brought with him, following Harrow into the bedroom and setting them at the foot of her bed. He had no complaints about being used as a pack mule; He never did. He did ask, though, "How are you holding up?" It was concern, not pity, Harrow told herself. He knew better than to offer pity.

She appreciated that, and taking a seat on the edge of her bed, Harrow said, "Well enough." 

Ortus, in a show of solidarity, sat beside her, his wide shoulder bumping hers. "Mother packed your... Underthings," he said, his face flushing a bit. "I didn't feel right doing it myself." 

"I appreciate that," Harrow said, her own cheeks warming. "And I appreciate you bringing my things."

He hummed, the sound doleful and familiar. "Have you just been sleeping with clothes instead of blankets?" he asked, one thick brow creeping up toward his hairline. 

"I haven't been sleeping," she replied. She had half a mind to rest her head on his shoulder and just nap there. They had more or less grown up together, with him acting the dutiful babysitter-borderline-brother, and they had napped together more times than either of them could count. "I have nightmares." 

He said, " _A dream itself is but a shadow_."

Harrow rolled her eyes at him, but laid her head on his shoulder anyway.

A bit awkwardly, he lifted his arm from between them and patted her on the back.

It wasn't pity, Harrow told herself. Ortus knew better. He knew her better than anyone, even Gideon. They were cousins by blood, but they were more like siblings in their closeness. She had missed him more than she would ever admit. 

From the doorway, her face perfectly blank, Ianthe said, "I don't think I've ever seen you cozy up to someone like this, Harry."

Ortus echoed, like a great, dark cave, " _Harry_?" 

"It's a nickname," Harrow said, standing and offering her hand to him, which he gratefully accepted. She wanted to hug him, to hide herself against him as she had when she was a child, but she only managed a soft, "Thank you."

He patted her on the head, as one would do with a very small child, then crept his way past Ianthe, then he was gone. 

When she heard the front door close, Ianthe took a seat on the floor, opening the nearest of the suitcases. She found sheets and a blanket and a pillow packed tight into it, and she closed it again, tossing it up onto Harrow's bed. 

Harrow tossed a pair of black jeans at her, clearing all the clothes off the bed so she could put on the sheet. 

While Harrow worked, Ianthe opened another suitcase, rooting through for a moment before she said, "It's all black." She pulled out a t-shirt, two hoodies (One of which had once belonged to Gideon), a pair of jeans, even a pair of little black panties, and Harrow flung herself off the bed to snatch them away. "Were you just waiting for someone to die?" 

Grabbing as much of her clothes and she could, Harrow shoved it into the top drawer of her dresser. "Shut up, Ianthe," she said. 

Ianthe, naturally, ignored her. She pulled a black dress from yet another suitcase. It was a swishy little number, composed entirely of black lace and jet beading. Harrow wasn't sure the last time she had worn it. "Try this on," Ianthe said, and held it out.

"Why?" Harrow asked.

"I wanna see you in it."

Though she rolled her eyes, Harrow took the dress and pulled it over her head, over her t-shirt and her leggings. It still fit well enough, though as thin as she was now, it hung a little looser than it should have. Just the same, Ianthe said, "I'll have to give you an occasion to wear it."

Harrow pulled the dress off again, and when she opened her eyes, Ianthe was standing before her. Their eyes stayed locked for a long moment, Harrow's dark and narrowed, Ianthe's heavy-lidded and bright. 

Harrow wasn't exactly surprised when Ianthe kissed her, but she didn't kiss back. Ianthe's hands came to rest at her waist, though, and Harrow shivered when she was pulled closer. She didn't mind the contact. Ianthe's flesh hand was warm, her prosthetic one cold when it slid along the skin of Harrow's hip. Her lips were soft, her tongue warm and insistent. 

Against her lips, Ianthe asked, "Bad timing?" 

"Could be worse," Harrow said, reaching up to grasp at Ianthe's upper arms, so that they couldn't separate. "At least we aren't in public."

"You don't want me kissing you in public?" Ianthe asked, looking more amused than irritated. "You don't want me kissing you where Gideon can see and get jealous?"

It was a tempting offer, though Harrow didn't say so. She shivered when Ianthe leaned in to nuzzle at her neck. "No," Harrow said, her voice low and soft with want. She hadn't heard herself sound like that in ages. "No, she's happy with Corona." It hurt to admit it. "They deserve to be happy. I don't want you kissing me just to make her jealous."

Ianthe lifted a pale brow at that. "So, what, I'm only allowed to kiss you if that's what I want?" she asked, her tone petulant. 

"Preferably," Harrow said.

"Lucky you, then," Ianthe shot back. 

She kissed Harrow again, and this time, Harrow kissed her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ortus is the best boy. That's it, that's the author's note.


	8. Chapter 8

The night was a slow, lazy one, and on Saturday morning, Harrow woke alone. She was curled in Ianthe's bed, still fully dressed, and on the bedside table was a note labeled _Harry_. Rubbing at her eyes, Harrow picked it up.

 _Harry,_ it said again, _I'll be back around noon. I'll bring lunch. I'm with Corona and Naberius if you need me. XOXO, Ianthe._

 _XOXO_? Harrow snorted, but found she didn't mind. She sat up, stretching her arms high over her head, feeling well-rested since the first time since she'd gotten here. She tossed the blanket aside and rose, stepping into the bathroom and hopping into the shower. She scrubbed herself clean, using Ianthe's body wash again, though she had her own now. Harrow liked the way it smelled on her. She dried off, wrapping a towel around herself and returning to the bedroom. 

She found the swishy black dress she had tried on last night, and she scooped it up. Why not wear it? She tossed it onto the bed, slipped into her panties, then pulled the dress over her head, not bothering with a bra. Ianthe kept a tall mirror on the floor near her bed, and Harrow went to look at herself in it. She looked nice, she was shocked to see. 

She finger-combed her hair, applied some mascara and eyeliner, then moved into the living room. She knelt in the foyer to pull on her heavy-heeled boots, then grabbed her purse and headed out the door.

It was overcast today, and the walk across the campus to the nearest coffee shop was brisk and refreshing. 

Harrow stepped inside, and this time, Gideon was waiting in front of her. It took everything Harrow had to say, "Hello."

Gideon rounded on her, and her smile lit up the whole shop. "Harrow!" She gave Harrow a long look, and that impossible smile brightened even further. "Looking good!" 

Doing her best not to let the warmth in her bones overwhelm her, Harrow adjusted the strap of her bag and said, "Thank you." 

"What're you doing out?" Gideon asked next, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her basketball shorts. "Coffee run, I guess?" 

Harrow shrugged her narrow shoulders. "I just didn't want to be alone," she said, and was surprised by how true it was. "Ianthe is with Corona and Naberius, so I thought I would come here." 

Gideon made a soft humming noise in her throat, taking a few steps forward when the line in front of her moved. "Corona says Ianthe's talking about you a lot," said Gideon, looking amused.

"Oh?"

Gideon laughed, "Said she won't shut up about you." She gave Harrow a wink, and Harrow did her best not to flush. "I think she's got a crush!"

"On me?" Harrow asked, both dark brows darting up to her hairline. 

"Well, yeah!" Gideon's curious amber eyes regarded Harrow for a long moment. She said, more serious than she had been in the whole rest of the conversation, "You look more alive than the last time I saw you." 

"Do I?" 

"You look..." Gideon hesitated, then smiled again, softer this time. "You look like you actually wanna be alive."

Despite her best efforts, Harrow's face flushed. It was a realization when she said, softly, "I do."


	9. Chapter 9

"Did you hear they announced this year's program?" Though Ianthe's voice was the same bored croon it usually was, she was practically trembling with excitement. Harrow had never seen her look so alive, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed. Alive was a good look on her.

Harrow, who sat beside her on the sofa, her copy of _The Bell Jar_ resting open across her chest, asked, "What is it?"

"It's called _Black Hole_ ," Ianthe said, her voice dropping low on the title, as if it were some horrifying declaration. "Something about a dying girl and her journey to _the other side_." She wrapped her arms around Harrow's waist, pulling her close enough that she could rest her chin on the top of Harrow's head. "I guess they didn't learn their lesson the last time."

Harrow twisted away, rolling her eyes when Ianthe pouted at her. "The last time?" she echoed. 

"They tried to put it on a few years ago," Ianthe said with a careless wave of her hand. "The lead dancer was killed, and she had no understudy, so they had to cancel. There was no program that year, and the school almost went under because of it."

Harrow had only heard rumors about the murder, if it was even a murder. No one seemed to be sure, and she had been too young to really care at the time. "What happened to her?" she asked.

"Someone cut her throat." Ianthe dragged her chilly fingertip across Harrow's throat, and Harrow shivered. "We never found out who it was." 

There had been talk that Cytherea had cut her throat herself, but Harrow had never believed that. She had been a miserable woman, but she had had too much pride to do such a thing. There were rumors that it had been Mercymorn, out of jealousy, or Augustine, out of anger, or even John Gaius himself, but none of it had ever been proven. Harrow hadn't particularly cared. There had always been something off about Cytherea. Gideon had liked her, and that had made Harrow care even less. Even now, she wasn't even especially curious who had done it. 

She asked, "What roles does the program call for?" 

"The Girl is the most important," Ianthe said, her eyes on her phone's screen. "Then there's Death." She leaned in close so her lips brushed Harrow's ear when she said, "That's the role I want."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm super, super excited to finally get this going! Mind the tags, though, it's gonna be a bit dark. No darker than canon, mind you, but still. 
> 
> As always, I must mention that I go by [Bloodlesssmirk](http://Bloodlesssmirk.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr, and I'm totally open to taking questions and comments there! :) Hit me up!


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